


To ashes.

by imightkeepyou



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-11 21:40:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3333839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imightkeepyou/pseuds/imightkeepyou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a hastily written scribble for a prompt that tevinterr posted on her tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To ashes.

The first time it happened, Solas woke with panic clawing at his chest, the cord of his amulet tight around his neck, the remnants of a dream stuck to his mind. A dream he could not control, a dream that took him somewhere other than the Fade—to  _her_.

He sat up, hands scrubbing at his face as if to wash the feeling from him. It was the first time he had dreamt of Lavellan since he had left. He knew that he would dream of her. It was to be expected—if he was a pond, she was the rock skimming the surface of him. She was the rock sinking to the depth of him. He’d almost told her the truth. Almost.

However, he thought that the memory of her would conjure up something different in his mind, something less…  _distressing_. A feeble hope for forgiveness to fall from her lips, pressed to his subconscious like a flower in a book.

Several moments passed before he could no longer hear the blood rushing in his ears, could no longer feel his heart thumping wildly in his chest, and he spent the time trying to swallow the realization that the bitter taste in his mouth was a familiar one.

Betrayal. He was no stranger to betrayal, a word he found was largely used as a weapon against one who could no longer let things stagnate. But his past was his past. He had done what was necessary, and he’d made some kind of peace with that; if that meant his name whispered in hushed tones, as a curse, as a warning, then so be it. 

Palms pressed against his eyes, Solas took a deep breath. It felt wrong, to push Lavellan in with the other actions of his past, his other mistakes. and yet, leaving her felt just like the kind of thing that would come to define him, given time.

The night offered up no answers to his questions and the moon kept quiet, but he did not feel capable of going back to sleep. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Solas found himself wary of dreaming.

* * *

 

Solas tried to stop counting the days that had passed since he’d last seen her. Actually seen her, not imagined her in his dreaming. It would be easier to forget Lavellan, the two of them, the feelings he had had— _still_ had—towards her; he knew the right spells to cast, the right potions to drink to erase her, only her. However, that was the action for a stronger man than he, and the thought of not thinking of her felt traitorous. He was weak, and mournful, and willing, just this once, to be haunted.

He imagined her plenty, awake or otherwise; he could swear he heard her laugh in the wind a time or two, heard the cadence of her footsteps behind him in an ancient ruin, but she was never there. He’d managed to find memories of her in the Fade, most seeming to be his own, a few colored by those she’d touched in the Inquisition. She was always a hero in those, her ears smaller, rounded out by human minds, her slight figure swallowed in armor until she was nothing but hope and the Anchor, burning brightly. He always had to turn his head and look away, for such depictions of Lavellan never felt right.

And then, there were the dreams—the  _real_ dreams, where he was powerless, that made him wonder how much worse it would be to just sleep as a dwarf. Sometimes, there was nothing but the feeling of regret, but more and more, he dreamt of Lavellan. His mind replayed that last trip to the Fade with her repeatedly outside of his dreams, but here, when he went back, he was trapped.

Sometimes, she would cry. Other times, she would curse him, or quietly leave, or ask him why, over and over. Sometimes, he would tell her everything, especially the truth; the ugly, bitter truth. He would kiss her and never leave, and then the dream would end, he would wake, and she would still be gone.

He awaited the dreams where he would find her running through the woods, hair wild, eyes wilder, or laughing over some joke he could never remember—the sound of her laughter had always hit him like a sword to the gut and no matter how much he tried, he couldn’t make himself deflect the blow, even for a memory. The dreams where he saw her smile, lighting up her face like a thousand stars, or the look she’d get on her face when she’d want to discuss something with him, curious and determined.

And every morning after, he’d wake suddenly, paralyzed by fear and drenched in sweat, calling out her name in a hoarse voice. Ashamed, always ashamed, and filled with regret, but bound and determined in his purpose.

He’d given up so much to make things right—Corypheus and the orb still stabbed at his pride, a reminder of both how much he was willing to give and his astounding propensity towards grand mistakes. After all of that, there was no way he could just stop. His course was set, his mind was made.

And yet, he could not help but wonder, every now and then when he forgot that he wasn’t supposed to count the days since he’d left, if she would be his undoing, if she would drive him mad. This always prompted the set of his jaw and a his mouth drawn into a grim, determined line. She probably would be, he acknowledged that much. Even if it took years. Even if it took ages. After the pained acceptance always came the quiet thought, the gentle hope:

Did she ever dream of him too?


End file.
